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But I awoke, and somehow, though all in my village perished, I was alive. The drained and deflated sores remained, my body spotted in pale scares. Across my hand I could still see the wound of my knife: I uttered a silent prayer then, thankful that in my delirium I had not gone further, not taken my own life.

The disease is all gone; the swarms are all gone; the river is all gone; and the villages are all gone. The wind picks up in a hollow wail, sending the dust of the dying forest into my eyes. I stoop, bending over and retching at the smell. Another village, with its unburied denizens, the rotting flesh turning to jelly. On the breeze I hear the murder, like faint mad laughter, the carrion crows feasting upon the dead.

Through the smooth path of the dry riverbed, I approach the desolation. The murder’s caws grow, the cacophony of their unending squabble over the corpses. Slowly, ever slower, I draw near the upcoming bend, grinding my teeth at every step.